


If Only Love Could Sustain Life

by crazyparakiss



Series: If Only Love Could... [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending (sterek), M/M, Misunderstanding, Mpreg, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There wasn't anything to say. No words would make this right. Between one breath and another he'd lost the love of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only Love Could Sustain Life

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at the beginning of the season pre-Jennifer is a crazy Darach, and hadn't posted because I forgot >.> It's unbeta'd. 
> 
> Also WARNING: there are graphic depictions of holding a stillborn child. 
> 
> I promise it's a hopeful ending.

 

“You know it wasn’t meant to be, right?”

 

Hearing the words doesn’t make the situation any easier. At this point he’s not sure much could—it’s not everyday he’s told there’s no longer the fast flicker of life lying beneath the soft skin of his belly. Admittedly, when he found out he didn’t want it—at all. Because A) boys don’t give birth and B) boys don’t give birth, but after the initial shock he grew fond of the idea. To the point of picking out names and ordering Star Wars onesies off _Amazon_.

 

“Stiles?” His dad is there, in his face, watching him with concerned watery blue eyes. “You know, one day, when the time is right…” he trails off unable to convince himself of those words let alone Stiles, and he knows. Stiles can see it, written like failure, in the lines of his face.

 

There’s something in him that’s destroyed and wrecked—ruined beyond his wildest imaginings—but he soldiers on like he did after Mom. Taking his father’s hand and patting it while giving him his best half smile, “I know, Dad…it’s fine.” He tries out a shrug and hopes it doesn’t look as stiff as it feels. There’s a protest partially formed on his father’s tongue but he stops it with an, “I’m fine. I mean, you’re right—there’ll be a time when it’s right. And that’s not today.”

 

The hand on his wrist tightens and Stiles tries to stand, but the grip becomes a desperate grasp—like his dad is afraid to let go. “Stiles-,” he starts, but Stiles cuts off the words with a minute shake of his head.

 

“It’s okay, Dad. I’m fine.”

 

Lying isn’t something he’s ever been proud of doing; the disappointment is always hard to handle. Right now, however, his dad doesn’t look disappointed—he just looks incredibly sad, and somehow that’s worse. “Okay, Son.”

 

Stiles hoists his backpack up over his left shoulder, and grabs his keys from off the desk. His father doesn’t bother to ask him if he’d like to stay home, and Stiles doesn’t ask to—lying in bed upset doesn’t seem productive. It was only a death, and at this point he’s come to expect death from all around.

 

 

***

 

Senior year is nearly over. Prom’s coming, SAT scores are coming, finals, lacrosse season is nearly at an end—all those things Stiles couldn’t wait for when he was first beginning junior high, but now they seem like the desires of a stranger. He shuffles into English, and drops down in his seat. On the board is a word that fits his situation wonderfully: _Loss_. In neat flowing script, it mocks him, and Stiles wishes he could take off for the lacrosse field.

 

Ms. Blake’s heels clack against the cheap scuffed industrial flooring, and she pulls her teaching schedule towards her when she stops behind the large desk at the head of the room. “Loss, what does it mean? On your desk is a copy of the definition as found on the online Merriam-Webster Dictionary.” Stiles, along with twenty-some odd others flips the page over. His eyes falling immediately to the top of the page, and as he reads down he feels heavy with grief. “Most of you don’t need to see this to define loss, because at this age you’ve probably experienced loss. Whether you lost money, a favorite toy, an animal, or perhaps a family member. Loss happens all around us. And how people deal with loss is what helps define them.” She startles, as if she’s veered off her intended course, and clears her throat. “What I want from this class is an analytical essay on loss. This will be submitted as part of your final along with a short test over some of the literary definitions we’ve covered in class, as well as short essay questions covering a couple of the plays we studied at the beginning of the semester.”

 

She’s saying something more, answering questions, but Stiles has tuned the world out. His bag is over his shoulder, and he’s out the door even as she’s calling for him to come back. Stiles mumbles a half-assed excuse about not feeling well and makes his way out of the room.

 

 

***

 

It’s warming up as the day drags on, and his skin feels itchy from the sun. The bleachers around him are hot to the touch, but he presses his palm against the metal. A shadow falls over him, bringing a sudden reprieve from the sun, and he squints up at Scott.

 

“Lydia said you ran out of English.” He takes a seat beside Stiles. Looking across the empty lacrosse field Stiles has been staring at all day. Stiles hears him open his backpack and soon a cold half gone water bottle is in his lap, courtesy of Scott. “I’m surprised you aren’t lobster red by now.” This is why Stiles loves Scott, forever and always, he’s good at ignoring a situation when Stiles wants him to, and will do it for as long as Stiles needs him to.

 

“I actually remembered sunscreen today, _Mom_.” Scott knows how to handle his insensitivity. He understands Stiles’s fears, and his acrid tongue that is quick to strike before he can feel hurt. It’s why Scott’s the only one who’s still around. After eighteen years and a lot of “friends” Scott’s the only one still standing.

 

Scott has a smile on his face, but burning questions in his sharp eyes. With a sigh Stiles says, “What are you doing out here, Scott?”

 

“Making sure you’re okay.” He says it in that sure way that screams _Duh Stiles why else would I be here_ and Stiles doesn’t have a good handle on his emotions so he wants to punch him, hug him, and cry all at once. Stiles won’t, and doesn’t, instead he lies back against the bleachers and closes his eyes.

 

“Go home, Scott.” He blindly tosses the water back, knowing Scott will catch it, and says, “I’ll be fine.”

 

Scott stands up, his heavy bag rustles and his steps have sound for once—another courtesy to Stiles—as he moves away. Before he’s gone he says, “You know I can hear when you lie?” And Stiles thinks maybe they’re still friends because Scott is an asshole, too.

 

 

 ***

 

His dad’s not in when he pulls into the driveway. Stiles is both grateful and disappointed as he climbs out of his Jeep. The door groans as he pushes it closed. He rubs a hand against the dings, and traces over areas of chipped paint. When he gets to the front stoop his package isn’t there and he’s glad—Stiles isn’t sure he could handle looking at all the reminders of what won’t be.

 

The old floor lamp is on, giving off a yellow glow from the living room allowing him to see the hook by the door thanks to dim light. He drops his bag, uncaring of his homework for English and any of the studying he should be doing for finals. Bed sounds much more appealing, but he knows he’ll only walk up the creaking stairs to fall into bed with his laptop. Sleep isn’t going to happen, not tonight or possibly the next. He’s been here before at this place where all that exists is grief and doubt. He didn’t sleep for two weeks after Mom and the only reason he started was because his dad forced prescription sleep-aids down Stiles’s throat.

 

Toeing his shoes off by his door and peeling off his outer shirt Stiles feels around in the semi-light from his lava lamp until he gets to his dresser. Faded police academy sweats warm his skin after he’s shucked his jeans, and he stumbles over to his laptop before carrying it back to bed.

 

Because he’s a glutton for punishment he _Google'_ s miscarriage, and randomly clicks on the _March of Dimes_ link. Under the question _Why do miscarriages occur_ he gets stuck on the line _However, most miscarriages occur when a pregnancy is not developing normally_. Nothing as abnormal as a _male_ pregnancy he thinks, and donates a hundred dollars out of his limited savings before moving on to a different site.

 

At around two in the morning—when all of his mind is full of words such as blighted ovum, etopic pregnancy, and premature pregnancy—his window opens. The only acknowledgment he gives is the quick flick of his glance to the shadow at his window before going back to his computer screen.

 

“You should be sleeping.” Derek’s voice is soft, but loud above the quiet click-click of Stiles’s computer keys and his breathing.

 

“No point,” Stiles shrugs, and doesn’t look up from his computer screen. He’s staring at the word _pregnancy_ and has been since he first heard Derek come into his room.

 

The anger is loud in Derek’s steady tone when he says, “No point?” A frustrated sound escapes his throat, and Stiles doesn’t watch him as he turns around to face the window. “Stiles, your body isn’t yours now. You can’t just go on like you did—high doses of Adderall, caffeine, and nights without sleep. That shit’s not good for the baby—for all we know it’s human.”

 

“If I was pregnant it’d still be a problem, sure, but I’m not—so get the fuck out.” He looks up in time to see Derek reel around. His face is pale, but not from anger like Stiles expected. Derek’s face is crumpled and vulnerable and hurt. Every placating smile he’s given his dad over the past week and a half, and all the _I’m fine’s_ he’s said nearly collapse in the presence of Derek’s raw expression. Stiles has never seen him so open—not even when they’ve fucked. Derek’s always holding a piece of himself back. When Stiles told him about the baby he stood with his usual stoic expression and in an impassive voice asked what Stiles expected of him. As if it didn’t matter to him what Stiles chose to do. It’s been four and a half months since then, and in all this time they’ve hardly spoken. Derek hasn’t asked for updates, and Stiles keeps the awkward blob-y mass black and white shots of the baby in his nightstand—as far as Stiles knows Derek has never seen them.

 

He looked when he got home from Deaton’s that Friday evening. After being told. Stiles didn’t cry as he looked down at them. Mostly, he was thinking _I guess now I can go out of state for school_. It’s always been easier to separate himself from pain. He feels it, sure, and shows it to some degree but most of the hurt gets buried somewhere deep, deep inside. Someplace dark where it festers and makes the ache worse. Yet, he continues to ignore the feeling—hoping it will eventually go away.

 

 Now Stiles opens his nightstand. Pulls the little glossy prints out and chews his bottom lip as he contemplates. Coming to a decision he clears his throat, “Do you want to see it?”

 

Seems rather cruel and morbid, but Stiles has never accused himself of being kind or this side of normal. Derek’s not all that normal either—he steps closer with that same wrecked look on his face as he reaches out for the ultrasound pictures. He doesn’t say anything when the smooth prints slide off of Stiles’s careless fingers and into his palm. Derek’s eyes are avid as they take in all the grainy details of the early pictures. The most recent one is where Derek pauses. The one where the face looks like a face and the hands have fingers. When he flips to the next he sees one of the feet. A little tiny foot that Stiles planned to put baby Adidas on. “Deaton said it was a girl.” Stiles sees him waver on his feet, and he doesn’t tell him he planned on naming her Laura. Some punches he’s not cruel enough to pull.

 

After a small eternity, Derek clears his throat and moves to hand the pictures back to Stiles but he holds up a hand and says, “Keep them or toss them—I don’t need those bad memories.”

 

Derek huffs out a hoarse laugh, “You’re an asshole.”

 

Stiles, for once, doesn’t offer a reply.

 

His blinds clatter against the window when Derek disappears through the it and Stiles pulls his computer closer to write his essay.

 

 

 ***

 

Ms. Blake approaches him a few days later, a concentrated frown on her face as she calls for him to wait just before he’s to his Jeep. Stiles knows she wants to talk about his “essay”, but he doesn’t want to see the pity in her pretty brown eyes.

 

“This isn’t what I asked you to write, Stiles. I’m going to have to grade this as an F.” It’s fair, he knows, and Stiles can’t find it in him to care. She’s a good woman, Ms. Blake, and he hopes she never loses her hopeful spirit.

 

“That’s fine,” he shrugs, and she looks confused for a moment before realization dawns.

 

“Oh, God, Stiles—is this…is this _true_?” She knows about werewolves so male pregnancy shouldn’t be such a far leap.

 

“Every word,” he whispers.

 

“Who?” Stiles knows what she’s asking, but he waves her question away.

 

“No one important, and not anyone you know.” She doesn’t look convinced but she leaves him be, and as she’s turning Stiles calls out her name. When she looks at him he gives her his brightest smile, “You’ll take care of Derek won’t you? That guy’s never caught a break, and I feel like you’ll be good for him.” Her smile is warm and infectious—it soothes him to see that she’s genuine and cares, “He deserves to have something go right in life.”

 

“You’re a good friend, Stiles, and important to him.”

 

He leaves, needing the safety of his Jeep, and he runs hands over his face. Tuning out the voice in his head telling him he’s not doing the right thing.

 

 

 ***

 

Prom comes and Scott talks him into going. Hell, Scott offers to escort him and Stiles tells him he’s flattered but adorable smiles and honest faces aren’t his type. Like the best friend he is Scott claps him on the shoulder and says, “Stag it is then.”

 

“I might dance with you, if you ask nicely,” Stiles cackles, and it almost feels normal to joke with Scott again.

 

“Stiles, I wouldn’t dream of dancing with anyone else.” Scott sounds like he means it, and then the asshole laughs while gently pushing Stiles’s shoulder. He’s reminded, again, why he loves Scott like family.

 

The gym is decorated like the prom in Back to the Future, and Stiles wonders what asshole (Coach most likely) decided _Under the Sea_ was a good theme. Though he doesn’t care when Scott slips him a drink he’s spiked with the contents of his hidden flask. Vodka and raspberry punch work beautifully together Stiles decides when his fourth one slips easily down his throat. When he laughs next it’s genuine, if alcohol fueled.

 

Scott actually dances with him, much to the amusement of many and shock of few. He balances out Stiles’s flailing limbs, and holds him through the slow dances—rocking him gently as they move across the dance floor. Stiles looks at him, and for a fuzzy second Stiles loses his common sense when he leans in to drop a small kiss against Scott’s lips. Scott laughs, “And that’s my cue to take you home.”

 

When they’re almost to Stiles’s Jeep Ms. Blake stops them and says, “Scott,” with the iciest tone Stiles has ever heard. It makes Scott frown and look at Stiles with his _what the fuck is happening_ face.

 

“Ms. Blake, uh, hi?”

 

“Stiles doesn’t need to be drinking or having you lead him on tonight,” and suddenly Stiles feels sober.

 

“No, no, Ms. Blake,” he starts but she’s busy giving Scott a piece of her mind about how he’s an insensitive jerk and should feel blessed to have Stiles as his boyfriend. All Stiles hopes for is an epic bolt of lightening so that he can die on the spot.

 

“Take him home, it’s been an exhausting few weeks for him—God, Scott.” She humiliates Stiles more by patting him on the shoulder before she walks past and he slumps into Scott’s side when she’s gone.

 

“Dude,” Scott starts and Stiles groans.

 

“Fucking kill me now,” he cries as he stumbles towards his Jeep.

 

Scott, being the asshole gentleman that he is helps Stiles into the passenger seat, and hurries to the driver’s side before asking, “What the fuck?”

 

“It’s about my essay. She thinks you’re _the asshole who broke my heart_ , and granted you’re an asshole, but I’m not in love with you so you can’t break my heart in the way I meant.” He feels Scott’s stare and looks over at him with a frown, “What, Scott?”

 

“Have I ever broke your heart in a different way?” _Yes, he thinks, when Allison first came around and you were so worried about her when it was me you kept trying to kill_.

 

“No,” he says instead while pointedly turning to stare out his window.

 

They are in his driveway when Scott says, “You know I can hear when you lie, right?”

 

 

 ***

 

Graduation is the best thing that happens to him after _The Incident_ as he’s taken to calling it when he thinks back on that horrible day—which is often, if he’s being honest. His dad’s smile is genuine, school is over, and in a couple weeks he’ll be moving east to go to Colombia.

 

They have a small party at the McCall’s. Boyd, Isaac, Cora, Derek, Ms. Blake, Lydia, Allison, Danny, and various others come in, make the rounds, eat the pretty cake, and leave after an appropriate amount of time. Except for Isaac, Boyd, Cora, Allison, Lydia, Derek, and Ms. Blake. They stay longer, and that gets awkward because Ms. Blake appears openly offended and disgusted when Scott slips his arm around Allison’s shoulders.

 

“Before you ask,” Stiles says—knowing they are in the safe circle of those who were informed. “It’s not Scott. It was never Scott.” He snatches up a bite of Isaac’s cake and says, “It was Isaac, and believe me he doesn’t need a lecture.” He gathers icing on the tip of his finger and smears the sugary concoction against Isaac’s slack lips. “We weren’t in love—shit happens and we all move on.” Stiles’s laugh sounds condescending and loud in his own ears, “It’s not like we all ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after with the bastard who takes our V-card.”

 

Stiles smacks Isaac on the ass and delights in his wide-eyed stare before he walks over and pecks Melissa on the cheek. “The party was nice—I’ll be sure to stop by when I visit for holidays.”

 

“You better,” she says with a stern yet fond expression and tone.

 

Before he leaves he turns to Derek and says, “You better be good to her. She seems like a keeper.” He doesn’t care if anyone hears him, and when he says his peace he leaves through the front door.

 

 

 ***

 

It’s another six years before he actually makes it back—Stiles gets a shitty apartment with cheap rent, and always claims he can’t get time off of work. “Food doesn’t buy itself,” he says to his dad when they both have time to _Skype_. Somewhere along the way the pestering stops and his dad seems resigned to a life without Stiles, and that’s when he decides it’s time to go home. Stiles is an adult now, and knows there is no happiness in hiding.

 

Nothing’s changed. Stiles feels comforted by familiar landmarks as he makes his way to his dad’s in his new Civic. The Crown Victoria cruiser his dad used to drive has been replaced with one of those flashy Charger’s and Stiles rolls his eyes knowing his dad probably keeps it trashed out with old fast food wrappers.

 

 

***

 

He’s home three days when he finally ventures out to the grocery store. He’s examining the produce, and weighing what he finds worthy when a small kid bumps into him. Shortly after a woman calls out an apology. Stiles looks up to tell her it’s not a bother and he comes face to face with Ms. Blake. She’s got a round face alive with glow and a large round belly to boot. Stiles is speechless, but gets over the shock quickly.

 

“Wow, Ms. Blake, two kids, huh?” He smiles as best he can while trying not to think about the face Derek makes when he’s feeling particularly passionate. Stiles doesn’t want to acknowledge that passion helped make Ms. Blake’s two kids.

 

“Stiles, call me Jen—I haven’t been Ms. Blake in years, and no…I’ve got three. The middle hellion is home with Daddy because he wasn’t feeling good.” She rubs a hand over the soft brown curls on her daughter’s head.

 

A laugh leaves him, choked and forced but most people never notice when it’s not genuine, and he nods at the little girl, “She’s beautiful, I’m glad you’re doing well, Jen.”

 

“Thanks, Stiles. I’m glad you came back.” Stiles nearly slumps at that, because he’s starting to wish he hadn’t.

 

 

 ***

 

In his room he lies against his bed, picking at the old comforter and its lingering scent of time mingled with dust. He reaches for the nightstand, searching for the pictures that are long gone. For the first time he sits up, against his headboard, to cry over a life that never was and will never be.

 

Stiles’s old alarm leaves a fissure in the Sheetrock, a large gaping hole that echoes the emptiness in his soul. More things follow: his little league trophies, various rocks he collected in childhood, the black wolf figurine he bought as a joke at some junk store. All the while he cries, until his cheeks are wet with a mixture of snot and tears and his eyes burn from the salty sting.

 

“Why did you take her away,” he screams at nothing—at a God who stopped listening. “Why did you take them both?” That comes out a hoarse whimper; his throat raw and unable to force more rage into the words. It wouldn’t do much good if he could, he figures—no amount of crying or screaming will bring them back. His mom. His daughter.

 

His dad comes in, and Stiles wonders how long he’s been home listening to Stiles’s mental collapse. Blue eyes bright with emotion fall on him and Stiles wants to look away from all the pain he sees in his father’s face, but he knows he needs to stop running.

 

“You know,” his dad starts, voice gruff, “When your mother died I hated everything: myself, your grandparents, your aunt, God, work, and sometimes you.” Stiles knows, he remembers some of the things his father screamed at nothing when he’d had too much to drink and thought Stiles was tucked away in bed. “I know you heard the shit I’d say—I know you were afraid I’d send you away, and much as I try to pretend I didn’t say those things when drunk…I did. I can’t take them back, son. I can’t say I was never angry.” His dad swallows and crosses his arms, looking down at his shoes to take a deep shuddering breath before he looks back up, “But I can tell you, I never meant it. I love you more than anything in this world…and I was so grateful when you lived even if your mother didn’t because I wouldn’t be here without you. I wouldn’t be even the slightest bit happy if you—” he stops, as a sob he’s kept buried for years escapes his lips and Stiles is off the bed with a quick jerking roll before he stumbles over to his dad. Sobbing again, as he wraps his arms fiercely around his broad shoulders. “Jesus, Stiles, I can’t imagine what it was like, and I’m sorry I wasn’t better with words.” He tightens his hold around Stiles, breathing him in like he’s picked up on the habits of wolves. “I was just so afraid losing her would take you away from me, would make you do something stupid like jump off a bridge or run into danger to get yourself killed.”

 

Stiles could lie and say the thought never crossed his mind, but he doesn’t because they both know it’s not true. Instead he whispers, “But I didn’t, Dad, and I’m still here.”

 

“I know, Son,” his dad whispers—like it’s the greatest prayer he’s ever had answered—and tightens his hold, “I know.”

 

 

***

 

Later he rights his room, and watches the sun as it sets through his window. Stiles sits on the floor flipping through old comics he’s not really in any hurry to re-read when darkness finally descends. Scott texted him earlier and asked when he planned on visiting. He hasn’t replied, and Scott hasn’t pestered him to come. He hasn’t heard from the others, either, even though they all know he’s back. News moves like fire in this town. Stiles knows they are all aware that he should be treated delicately—like his dad they all realize he’s come home to grieve.

 

 

***

 

He spends the next two weeks in bed, watching his window and wondering if Derek will ever call on him from that perch again. Remembering Ms. Blake, Stiles thinks it’s highly unlikely but he leaves the latch off all the same.

 

 

***

 

When Wednesday of his third week back comes Stiles makes his way to the bathroom to shower, shave his poor excuse for a beard, and brush his teeth.

 

The drive to Derek’s seems pointless when he stops in the building’s parking garage. Surely, he wouldn’t still live in a loft when he’s got his pack and three children—but Stiles figures it’s Derek so anything is possible.

 

Rusty metal grate groans as he opens it and lets himself into Derek’s space. Unsurprised, that it is open. When you have fangs and claws and the minimum of worldly possessions there is no need to lock up the house. It looks the same, but different. There’s more color. Near the wall of windows there is a tree growing in a long pot. Along with other various plants—some even flower much to Stiles’s shocked amusement. In lieu of the long “plotting” table Derek once had there is now a bar height table with eight seats, and a white orchid rules over it with simple grace. The bed that was Isaac’s now has a rather vibrant girlie bedspread on it, and Stiles hurts at the reminder of Derek’s daughter—his _living_ daughter.

 

“Stiles,” he turns to face the winding stairwell that leads to the lofty space where Derek’s large bed and poor excuse for a nightstand are, and sees an older version of the face that haunts his dreams and nightmares. Thirty suits Derek. He’s still attractive, but he’s not the raging fire of raw sex that left most of Beacon Hills panting—now he’s the coals not quite so blinding, but if you were to touch he’d burn you with the same intensity he had when younger. It takes Stiles’s words away to see him, and so he stands gaping like a fish as he looks at Derek.

 

“I, uh,” he moves one of his long arms gesticulating behind him as if it means something, and Derek cocks an eyebrow while wearing an amused smile. Bastard. “I was wondering if you still had something of mine.” He drops his arm, suddenly aware of the situation and what he’s come to upset. He sees Derek’s daughter and the hard curve of Jen’s belly. Shaking his head, Stiles says, “You know what—it’s not important. I’ll, uh, just see myself out.”

 

He’s almost to the lift when Derek stops him, “Wait, Stiles.”

 

And what he hates most about finally feeling his grief is how hard it is to feel Derek’s warmth against his back. So he cries, and feels stupid because he’s not supposed to be sad or angry or feel guilty. Many nights, after he stumbled with exhaustion up to his apartment, Stiles would lie awake thinking. He’d tell himself she wasn’t really a person. He can’t miss her if he never saw her breathe. He can’t love someone he doesn’t know. And he can’t be sad over what could have been the worst mistake of his life. Now it feels awful to remember those things he told himself as he touched the few faint white lines webbed across his hips. When he faces Derek he sees what he imagined when he was first told about the baby. Eyes full of beautiful hues, olive skin, dark wavy hair, large front teeth—he also remembers the bits of himself he mixed with Derek. The dark moles and freckles, funny nose, long lanky limbs, Stiles’s mother’s lips, and his dad’s goofy laugh (both of which Stiles inherited). “I wanted her more than anything, Derek.” Finally, it’s free—the admission he’s spent years denying.

 

As if that’s all the permission Derek is waiting for he grabs Stiles and hauls him close, kissing him with the brutality Stiles searched for while he was away—only to be disappointed when he didn’t find what he craved. Hot calloused palms run over his stomach with obvious intent. Soft strokes of Derek’s finger tips toy with the small bit of fat Stiles still has just beneath his bellybutton. “God, I wanted her too, Stiles.”

 

He should care that Derek’s got a family, should be turned off when he imagines Jen’s teary face, and should be disgusted at himself for becoming a home-wrecker—but he’s not, and Stiles can’t find it in himself to care. The selfish, angry parts of himself that he tries to lock away are there, now, giving him the fuel to keep going.

 

Rough brick scratches the skin of his bare back as Derek presses him into the wall. Teeth bite against the pale flesh over his collar bones and Stiles shudders thinking about how he’ll be able to see evidence of Derek for weeks when this is over. Derek has his cock free and is working on getting Stiles’s out. He moves Stiles’s hand towards his cock, and Stiles doesn’t need help going from there. In the past six years he’s ached for the feel of Derek in his palm, and some mornings woke tormented with sense memory. Now it’s in his hand—the head a dark red flush that has Stiles mesmerized as he works Derek’s foreskin over it and back down.

 

Derek’s grip is tight, and his pulls are rough the way Stiles likes. Against Stiles’s jaw he whispers Stiles’s name, over and over like a carnal prayer. Stiles gives back as good as he can while Derek presses closer, bites harder, and claims every bit of Stiles for himself.

 

Stiles comes first, and his toes curl in his shoes as it spurts over the back of Derek’s hand and across his palm. Lust hooded eyes hold Stiles’s tired gaze as Derek licks the mess from his skin. While he does this Derek takes his cock from Stiles’s limp hold and brings himself off to the taste of Stiles’s come. Stiles pulls Derek’s hand to his mouth and cleans him while Derek takes his time leaning against Stiles’s side and the wall. Watching Stiles as he recovers his breath.

 

He’s preparing himself for the inevitable moment when Derek tells him it’s time to go, but as Stiles tucks himself back into his jeans Derek says, “Come here for a second.”

 

Here winds up being Derek’s room. It hasn’t changed much, Stiles notices as he hovers near the stairwell. Derek’s at the nightstand, and he hesitates a moment. Looking back at Stiles, searching him for some sign—what he’s looking for Stiles hasn’t the faintest clue. Then he’s back to the nightstand, pulling open its drawer and lifting a small burnt box from inside.

 

“I want you to have this.” Stiles takes it when Derek offers it to him, and caresses the charred corners. He’s lifting up the lid when Derek stops him, and shakes his head. “Open it when you get home,” he’s gentle—something Derek’s never really been with Stiles—when he presses a kiss against the curve of Stiles’s cheek.

 

“Okay,” he whispers, unsure and frightened of this moment between them.

 

 

***

 

Stiles eats dinner with his dad. A baked zucchini lasagna, and for once his dad doesn’t make a protest. They flip though channels after, until they find _Tremors_ and watch it because there’s nothing better on at this time.

 

Slinking up to bed around midnight, Stiles smiles thinking about his dad crashed out in the old recliner and covered with his mother’s old quilt. The box is a siren’s call on his desk, but he puts it off as he slips out of his jeans and shirts. When he’s in his pajamas Stiles debates grabbing the inauspicious box or ignoring it for tomorrow.

 

After long minutes of silence he sighs and grabs it—thinking it can’t make him feel any worse than he already does. All through dinner his dad’s wedding band mocked him—battered gold that still signified a promise he gave to Stiles’s mother. One promise his father had kept before and after his mother’s last breath. He spent all morning making a mockery of Derek’s promise to Jen, and bile burned his throat when he thought back on those stolen moments in Derek’s kitchen.

 

He lifts the lid to find a Post-it note with precise print that says _READ THEM IN ORDER_. Stiles wears a weak smile while he runs a finger over Derek’s lettering. He’s always been fond of all capitals, since Stiles has known him, and Stiles wonders how badly Derek’s grade school teachers hated him.

 

The first one has a yellow and brown stain on it that spreads a unique pattern across the paper, and when Stiles lifts it to his nose he can smell the very faint trace of coffee.

 

 

_Loss_

_What is loss? The definition states Loss is destruction, ruin, a deprivation, but for me loss is emptiness. It’s a heavy reminder that lingers in the wake of something I once held precious. For most people my age precious equates an iPod, a cellphone, a laptop, etcetera. Yet, for me, precious is life. It’s the force of living energy that can never be replaced. In my eighteen years of life I’ve seen more death than any being should be subjected to; I’ve come to expect Death. To the point where I fear attachment more than anything—I don’t want to love or feel because at the end of the day I always lose._

_My most recent loss was my daughter. The little flicker of life growing beneath my skin. I’ve heard women in the grocery store say there is nothing like growing a life. Being a boy I never paid much attention, because I can’t grow life in my non-existent womb. Only, I did grow life. For four and a half months she was there, in me, getting stronger everyday. Until one morning, Friday, last week, when I went to the animal clinic to have a check up with Deaton. There was no heartbeat when he rolled that cold wand through the gel on my abdomen. His expression comes to me, clear as day, when I close my eyes each night. I see the concentrated frown and the sad clench of his jaw. He didn’t want to tell me. I don’t imagine any doctor likes to give a mother bad news regarding their unborn. Deaton didn’t have to; I could see the truth in his posture and heard it in his sharp intake of air._

_What happened after that was unpleasant. I told him I wanted to feel it, and he strapped me to the table. Of course, the procedure hurt. It felt like I’ve always imagined a wolf’s claw would feel like as it cut through my abdomen—all sharp blinding pain and the cloying scent of blood. In the end, she wasn’t very big. A very, very tiny baby I held after Deaton stitched me up. Her skin was soft and translucent over tiny little fingers I couldn’t stop staring at, and after sometime of just holding her my dad came to take me home. When Deaton took her out of my hands I wanted to scream for her back, but I let Dad help me out to his car._

_Most kids spend Spring Break partying, and last year I was one of them. I spent this year’s lying in bed healing as best as I could with what I had. I’m not like them. I can’t heal as quickly, or without scars. Dad spent as much time as he could with me. Making dinner and bringing it up to my room; he even went as far as to sit next to me in bed and watch movies on the T.V. I got for Lydia’s birthday (long story). It was the most time we’ve spent together in years._

_He asked if I wanted to call the guy who knocked me up. I said no. He wouldn’t care, I said. However, that’s not true. He showed up tonight, and was ruined when I told him. Kinda funny how he can hate me, but love the piece of me he helped make. At least he looked like he might have loved her, and might have wanted her if she’d made it out. The asshole who broke my heart cares more about his dead child than he ever cared about me._

_All I wanted was to lay down and die when he left, but Dad was still here and I can’t fall to pieces when I know he needs me. I think that has been the hardest part—not being able to feel because I know if I feel, if I allow myself to think over ever detail, I’ll go insane. One day, I might sit down and fall apart, but I’m afraid to go there. Afraid to want and miss what can’t be—I did that with Mom. I don’t want to do that again._

_So for me loss is the reminder of what isn’t—what will never be—that constant ache of failure that loops inside of my mind while I make the motions of my tedious days._

 

It ends there, and Stiles spends hours re-reading it and crying. Finally, he reaches to pull out another slip of folded up paper. Inside is Derek’s angry scrawl, and Stiles nearly closes it—believing he doesn’t have the strength.

 

_STILES,_

_WHAT THE FUCK? YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE US WITHOUT TELLING US WHERE YOU’RE GOING. THAT’S NOT WHAT PACK DOES. WHEN YOU GET BACK I’M GOING TO WRING YOUR FUCKING NECK._

 

He snorts at Derek’s usual _verbose_ self. Folding the paper back up Stiles moves on to the second one. This one has a date written at the bottom—written two years after he left.

 

_STILES,_

_JEN THINKS ISAAC GOT YOU PREGNANT. I’M DEBATING TELLING HER THE TRUTH. NOT JUST BECAUSE OF THE GUILT, BUT BECAUSE WHEN I LOOK IN HER EYES I SEE YOU AND WHEN I SEE YOU I HEAR PHANTOM FOOTSTEPS FROM A BABY I KNOW ISN’T COMING._

_SHE’D BE TWO THIS YEAR. I OFTEN WONDER IF SHE’D HAVE YOUR EYES OR MINE. THIS IS SO FUCKED UP. YOU’RE RIGHT ABOUT JEN, SHE’S A KEEPER, BUT SHE DESERVES BETTER. I FUCK HER AND I THINK ABOUT YOU. SHE CALLS MY NAME AND I HEAR YOUR VOICE. I TRIED TO TALK TO SCOTT THE OTHER DAY ABOUT YOU, BUT HE PUNCHED ME IN THE GUT AND RIPPED OUT A CHUNK OF MY THIGH WITH HIS CLAWS. I WISH I COULD SAY I DIDN’T DESERVE IT, BUT TO BE HONEST I DESERVE THAT AND MORE._

_I WISH YOU’D COME BACK._

 

He doesn’t pause to think about it, or examine how fast his heart is racing. Stiles barrels on to the next letter. It’s dated for a month after the last.

 

_STILES,_

_I LEFT JEN. OR RATHER, SHE LEFT ME WHEN I TOLD HER ABOUT THE BABY. FUNNY THING IS SHE SAID SHE KNEW, AND KINDA HAD A FEELING. SAID SHE THOUGHT MAYBE IT WAS ALL SOMETHING THAT I’D WORK THROUGH EVENTUALLY BECAUSE SHE REMEMBERED YOU SAYING WE WEREN’T IN LOVE. ONLY YOU DO LOVE ME—AND SHE FIGURED OUT THAT I LOVE YOU BACK. I WISH I KNEW WHERE TO SEND THESE TO. I WISH I KNEW WHERE YOU WERE._

 

The next one is dated four years after he left.

 

_STILES,_

_I DREAMED ABOUT YOU AGAIN._

 

The next is dated a few weeks after the last letter.

 

_STILES,_

_HURRY UP AND COME HOME._

 

He unfurls the second to last one and sees that it was dated for two weeks before today.

 

 

_STILES,_

_DEATON TOLD ME WHAT HAPPENED. TOLD ME ABOUT HAVING TO TAKE HER OUT OF YOU TO PREVENT INFECTION AND ABOUT HOW YOU DIDN’T WANT TO BE SEDATED. ARE YOU FUCKING OUT OF YOUR MIND? YOU COULD’VE DIED! YOUR BODY COULD’VE GONE INTO SHOCK AND THEN WHAT STILES? WE’D HAVE HAD NO BABY AND NO YOU. I’M SO ALONE WITHOUT YOU HERE, AS IT IS. BUT SINCE THEN I’VE BEEN IMAGINING A WORLD WHERE YOU ARE GONE, FOR GOOD, AND IT’S A NIGHTMARE THAT’S STARTING TO MESS WITH ME THROUGH THE DAY, EVEN. I CAN’T STOP THE IRRATIONAL FEAR DESPITE THE FACT I KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. I KNOW YOU’RE ALIVE BECAUSE I SMELL YOU ON THE THINGS YOU SEND SCOTT FOR HIS BIRTHDAY AND CHRISTMAS. BUT I DON’T SEE YOU, AND WORSE I DON’T HEAR THE CALMING RHYTHM OF YOUR HEART. I CAN’T JUST REACH OUT AND FIND IT NOW._

_I LOVED HER, STILES. I KNOW YOU DON’T BELIEVE THAT, BUT I DID, AND I STILL DO. I STILL WANT IT WITH YOU—I WANT IT ALL AND THAT FEELS SELFISH. IT WAS A SELFISH WANT WHEN YOU WERE SEVENTEEN AND IT’S A SELFISH WANT NOW. BUT I CAN’T STOP THE ALL CONSUMING KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU ARE THE ONE. STUPID AND RIDICULOUS AS THAT SOUNDS IT’S TRUE. I SEE YOU IN EVERYTHING—EVERYONE—AND YET YOU ARE NOWHERE SO I FEEL LIKE I AM CHASING SHADOWS ALL THE TIME. MEMORIES THAT HAVEN’T FADED THROUGH THE YEARS, AND I AM TIRED OF LIVING WITH THE GHOSTS. EVEN IF YOU DON’T LOVE ME, OR TAKE ME BACK (I WOULDN’T TAKE ME BACK), COME HOME. PLEASE, STILES, JUST COME HOME. I CAN’T TAKE ANOTHER YEAR OF NOT HEARING YOUR HEARTBEAT, SMELLING YOU ON THE TOWN, OR SEEING YOUR BRIGHT SMILE._

_I’M TIRED OF BEING IN A WORLD WHERE I CAN’T FIND YOU—YOU CAN DENY ME EVERYTHING—BUT PLEASE DON’T DENY ME YOUR PRESENCE IN THE WORLD._

He sobs audibly as he takes hold of the last one, and when he reads what is written there he feels his whole body shake.

 

_STILES,_

_I WANTED TO NAME HER LAURA._

 

It’s dated for the day he came home.

 

 

***

 

His dad doesn’t try to stop him when he slams out the front door and races down to his car. Stiles doubts his father could stop him now if he wanted to—he’s on a mission to put things right.

 

They’ve never done anything without sarcasm or fighting—hell those times they came together to fuck they spent the hours exchanging backhanded compliments and tried to fight the other for control. Stiles would never give Derek his belly, and Derek didn’t want it—he wanted the fight, and Stiles aimed to please.

 

This is different, though.

 

When he’s inside Derek’s loft this time he can feel it. There is nothing keeping them from being honest. All the truths are bare for the other to see and it’s more frightening and more intimate than they’ve ever been.

 

Derek pulls him into a hug when he steps into the loft and Stiles cries some more. Against Derek’s strong shoulder while Derek runs his thick fingers through Stiles’s hair—and he finds the motions soothing. They kiss forever and it’s not a kiss that’s erotic—mostly it tastes of salt and slime, but neither of them care. Especially when Derek breaks them apart long enough to whisper against Stiles’s swollen lips, “Stay. Fuck, please stay,” and he sounds so ruined, like he’ll collapse if Stiles doesn’t—so Stiles agrees.

 

He shoots his dad a text telling him he’s with Derek, and that he’s not going to be home.

 

His dad’s not surprised.

 

 

***

 

Dawn comes and spills crimson, gold, pink, and purple across the sky. Both Stiles and Derek are still wide awake; wrapped around one another beneath Derek’s dark sheets. Stiles is afraid to let go, and can tell Derek is, too. Gentle fingers trace the pink scar on his abdomen and Stiles tries to shy away, but Derek shushes him and continues to follow its curve.

 

Stiles stills his hand and Derek looks into his eyes; with wide green eyes that are full of Stiles’s reflection. In that moment he thinks this is right, fucked up and miserable, but right.

 

“I wanted to name her Laura, too,” Stiles whispers in the limited space between them.

 

 

***

 

Days later, when they’ve both cried, shared still open wounds (Derek his dead family and Stiles his mother), and fucked until their voices were raw, Stiles brings out the charred wooden box Derek sent home with him. Derek eyes it warily; as if what’s in the box can unravel what they’ve finally admitted to having. Stiles smiles at him, and reaches for his hand—conveying to Derek that there is nothing that can break this bond. Death and time couldn’t shake them, and neither will painful memories.

 

Stiles puts the letters and his essay back inside. Then he flips through the sonogram photos one last time, smiling a bitter little smile as he says a final goodbye to his daughter.

 

Derek is beside him when Stiles puts the box in the old trunk Derek keeps the last of his family scrapbooks in, and they shut it with a weighted finality. From this point on they won’t talk about it, but in the back of their minds they will remember, and there will be uncertain nights when the other needs a warm body to anchor them to this earth, and remind them there are still things that make life worth living.

 

Perhaps one day, when and if they feel ready they will take that plunge and try to create another little life. They both know it will never be Laura, and they’ve both come to terms with the fact that life cannot be recreated. Each little soul is unique, and the next one will be no less beautiful, but it will never have a sparkle like Laura’s, just as she would’ve never had a sparkle like the next little Hale.

 

 

***

 

Stiles lies awake some nights when Derek’s breathing evens out and he rests in blissful slumber, and Stiles tries to imagine their lives with a chubby baby running around. A little boy or girl with wavy hair and bright green eyes, and Stiles’s mischievous grin and Derek’s intimidating glower. Someone who runs to them in the night to burrow in their bed and find comfort in their scents. A little person comprised of them who will see no fault with them and know only the goodness they’ve got to offer. Because that little being will bring out the best in them both and make them forget the worst.

 

Every night Stiles dares to dream and hope.

 


End file.
